


what if (this is all but a lie)

by lincesque



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-07
Updated: 2011-10-07
Packaged: 2017-10-24 09:32:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/261837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lincesque/pseuds/lincesque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five lifetimes they might have lived and one that they actually did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	what if (this is all but a lie)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sienna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sienna/gifts).



> My fic for the X-Men:FC Summer Exchange.
> 
> A huge thank you to **F** for the really last minute beta and being awesome \o/ I owe you forever ~~and a crap load of cookies~~ ♥
> 
> Desu, I hope you like it. Somewhat =3;

  
**what if (this is all but a lie)**

  
_5 ways Erik and Charles’ relationship progressed (in five alternate worlds)_   


  
_\+ 1 way it always ended_   


 

  
They didn’t always meet in an endless, icy sea, grappling against one another, fleeting touches of skin on bare skin and his mind in _his_ ; projecting, calming, asking to be believed.   


Charles wakes slowly, feeling the press of paper against his cheek and the distant chime of the antique grandfather clock that sits out in the cafe.

He counts three chimes before silence falls and sits up with a jerk, ignoring the sheets of his cafe’s accounts that flutter to the floor at the sudden movement. Rubbing at his eyes, Charles furrows his brows, knowing from long experience that the echoing throb in his temple will turn into a nasty migraine sooner rather than later.

Raven pokes her head around the door, eyes concerned. “Are you ok?” His sister always seemed to have an uncanny way of knowing when he was awake and not feeling his best.

Charles mumbles something incomprehensible and makes as if to go back to number crunching. Raven narrows her eyes at him and clamps a hand over his wrist. For her small, slender figure, there is real power in her fingers as she urges him up and out.

“But the accounts...” He throws a lingering glance at the mess of papers in his office.

“Food first. Then you can come back.” Her grip is unrelenting as she basically drags him down the hallway and into the cafe proper.

They pass Angel in the hallway as she comes off duty from serving. She offers a smile and a tilted look of concern at the way he’s rumpled from napping at his desk and not quite awake.

To Charles’ relief, she says nothing, merely remarking, “Hank’s made you a sandwich,” before continuing on her way to the staff bathrooms to change out of her work clothes.

The lunch rush is long over and they’re almost ready to close for the day. There are a few customers still scattered around, lingering over their coffees.

Armando is leaning against a table near the coffee bar and idly chatting with Hank who is sipping from a steaming mug. The kitchen has long since closed.

Charles spots Alex at the register, taking an order before going back to the giant coffee machine, which they’ve nicknamed ‘Cerebro’. It’s the pride and joy of Cafe X and it took Charles and Hank a good year to build it from scratch.

Raven lets Charles’ wrist go and gestures at the plate sitting innocuously next to Hank, piled with what is possibly the biggest sandwich he’s seen in a while. Next to it is another cup.

His eyes fix on that, noticing the steam curling lazily through the air above, almost tasting the utter heaven that is Alex’s coffee. “Is that...?”

Raven shakes her head with a sigh. “Just make sure you eat as well.”

He acknowledges her absently, already winding his way through the maze of polished wooden tables.

Charles is so intent on reaching Hank and his coffee, that he almost walks into the man who’s just turned away from the counter.

They notice each other just in time to avoid a physical collision, but the sudden stop on both their parts is enough to send the coffee sloshing out from the mug in the stranger’s hands, splattering across the floor.

Charles is nigh mortified, too embarrassed to even look up. Instead, he almost flutters about on the spot, waving his hands ineffectually at the mess. “I’m so sorry.” He looks about for a napkin or something to wipe it up.

Raven sighs and pushes him out of the way. “I’ll take care of this. You go sit down before you cause an even bigger accident.”

A soft huff of amusement makes Charles jerk his head up and remember the other person present.

“I’m really quite sorry.” Charles is of average height, but he finds himself having to tilt his head upwards to meet the half amused, half annoyed gaze directed at him.

“Let me get you another drink.” He tells the taller man, blue eyes wide and earnest, before taking him by the arm and guiding him back towards the coffee bar.

Charles doesn’t notice the man’s bemused look, directed first at him, then at his hand on his elbow.

He gets to the counter, and finds Alex placing a fresh mug of coffee on a saucer. Alex’s not quite laughing, but it’s a close call.

“Tell me if you need anything else, boss.” Alex manages before he escapes to the kitchen. The sound of muffled giggling is heard not long after.

There’s a brief, vaguely awkward silence before the stranger relaxes against the counter, cradling the new cup between big hands. He asks, “Boss?”

Charles flushes, drawing his eyes away from the long fingers against white ceramic. He bites his lip. “I forget my manners.”

He offers a hand, and peers upwards from beneath his lashes. “I’m Charles Xavier, owner of Cafe X.”

The other man’s eyes flick from the proffered hand to Charles’ eyes, lingering just a little at the reddened lips.

He sets down the mug with a soft clunk against the counter and slides his hand into Charles’, clasping it in a solid grip.

There’s the tiniest twitch of a smile at the edges of his lips. “Erik Lehnsherr. Pleased to meet you, Charles.”

*

 

  
They didn’t always form a partnership the way they did the night after he stopped _him_ from leaving, with one soft sentence backed in steel: ‘I can, but I won’t.’   


The smoke from burnt cigars, new and old, curl lazily in the dimly lit club.

There’s a significant press of people despite the supposedly exclusive clientele that this particular place caters for.

Erik strides through both the hazy smoke and crowd, ignoring the few people who dare to try and catch his attention.

He’s directed through a discrete door guarded by men armed with guns, steel barrels nestled in coarse hands. He ignores them, used to them as all men in this line of work must be, and strides down the better lit hallway, black coattails billowing out slightly behind him.

There’s only one door at the end of the hallway, and Erik gives a brief knock before pushing it open, only to find two silencer-equipped muzzles aimed at his person.

Charles Xavier sits calmly behind the polished wooden monstrosity that he calls a desk. He smiles, wide and bright, eyes lighting up at Erik and stands, waving back his two bodyguards. He looks much too young to be what he is.

“I’m terribly sorry about that.” He tells Erik, gesturing for him to take a seat. “Precautions, you must understand.”

Erik nods once in acceptance of the fact, a sharp inclination of his head.

Summers eyes him distrustfully from his position behind Charles’ left shoulder and fingers the trigger of his semi-automatic, body still tense. Cassidy, in contrast, whilst mirroring Summers’ position to the right, has his hands in his pockets and is slouched against a wall.

Erik’s not fooled. He’s seen Cassidy in action before, and knows full well the man could disarm and disable five men in the time it takes for a normal person to sneeze.

He draws out a chair and settles himself as comfortably as possible on the hard, unforgiving wood. “I’m glad you’re taking this seriously at last.”

Charles sits back down and at these words, he freezes for a split second, unnoticeable to anyone not watching carefully. But his smile is still there. “Hard not to, especially after the little gift the Hellfire Club left for me.”

Erik can’t help but notice the way that Charles’ knuckles whiten, as he grips the edge of the table.

His eyes narrow, as he ponders the best way to kill Sebastian Shaw for causing Charles even the slightest bit of distress.

It would definitely be slow and painful.

“So what did you want to discuss with me, Erik?”

Erik’s shaken from his contemplation as Charles voices his question, tilting his head slightly, all signs of tension and unease gone as if they had never been there.

Erik leans back in his seat in one fluid motion and steeples his fingers. “I would like for us to merge our forces.”

Charles’ smiling blue eyes lose their easy humor and sharpen.

It’s Xavier, the dangerously charismatic third head of the New York underworld, that stares back at him coolly now. “The X-Men and the Brotherhood have operated independently successfully for decades. Why merge now?”

Erik responds to the question only with a slow smile, ignoring the physically bristling Summers and the calculating look that Cassidy is giving him.

He understands why there is so much mistrust. Erik and Charles could be friends, but not Lehnsherr and Xavier. Their positions would never allow for it.

“Why else?” Erik’s smile shows teeth; he is every inch the ruthless leader of the Brotherhood now. He’s been told multiple times by shaking subordinates that this particular smile is a terrifying expression that should only ever be directed at his enemies, but Charles doesn’t seem to mind if the contemplative expression is anything to judge by.

“Shaw.”

Erik dips his chin once in silent assent.

Charles’ smile returns as he leans forward. Without leaning forward himself, Erik clearly sees the bright, vivid blue in Charles’ eyes.

Charles leans over the table and offers a hand to Erik, ignoring the hissed dismay from Summers and drawing a frown from even the ever-placid-looking Cassidy.

“Consider your proposal agreed to.” There’s a hint of deadly anticipation that Charles cannot hide.

Erik envelops the smaller hand in his and smiles, echoing that feeling. “There’s nothing in the world that can stop the two of us together.”

*

 

  
Their first kiss didn’t always happen when he was half drunk, trying his best not to drop the key to their room for the night, _he_ crowding him against the door, touching gentle fingers to reddened cheeks, smiling, soft and oddly shy.    


In hindsight, Charles should’ve realized that something was up the moment he stepped through the grand revolving doors of his firm.

But on second thought, since he is preoccupied with reviewing the Shaw case, due to go to court in less than a day, Charles can probably be forgiven for his lapse, his nose stuck in his manila folder.

That said, there is a glaring lack of people in the lobby, and the few who are present are huddled together in small groups, muttering softly amongst each other.

The elevator ride up to his office is filled with the innocuous harmonics of one of Mozart’s concertos and the sound of shuffling paper. Charles doesn’t even notice the presence of two of the new summer interns until he steps on one by accident. The intern squeaks.

Raising his head from his notes, Charles blinks, and his eyes widen just a little as he takes a step back. “I’m sorry, I didn’t notice you two there.”

“It’s fine, Mr. Xavier.” The one with glasses shuffles until he is pressed against the back of the elevator wall. “Really.”

Charles studies them for a moment longer before placing their names. “Henry and Armando, right?”

Armando, the one without glasses, is the only one who smiles back. Even then, it is a very nervous looking smile. “Got it in one, Mr. Xavier.”

“Please, just call me Charles. I...” His words are cut off as the elevator stops and slides open on the fifteenth floor, his office, and to utter chaos.

“P-please have a good day, Mr. Xavier.” Henry manages, as Charles steps out onto the plush carpeted hallway.

Charles smiles again at them, somewhat distracted by the hordes of people running about or answering phones or yelling over each other. His voice is somewhat bemused as he answers, “I’m sure I will.”

“Charles!” Raven pokes her head out from her office, both her mobile and her desk phone pressed against her shoulders, one in each hand.

“Raven, what on earth...?”

She shakes her head at him. “We don’t have time for this. Shaw has just decided to plead not guilty. Everything’s on your desk.”

Charles frowns. “But we talked this over, I thought he agreed to let us do the negotiating?”

Raven’s look is contemptuous; she hadn’t wanted to take on this case at all. She wasn’t the only one, Charles had also been hard pressed to agree, and even then his agreement was only due to heavy leaning from a few higher-ups whom he owed favors to.

“When do our clients actually listen to us anyway?” she remarks before retreating back to her office.

Charles sighs and snaps his manila folder shut, striding towards his office to find out just how bad the damage is.

Shaw vs The State is an exceedingly high profile case. It just wouldn’t do to have his company’s name dragged through the mud, simply because of their client’s disregard for every piece of advice they had offered him.

“Mr. Xavier...” His secretary, Angel, stands, looking a tad unsettled.

Charles nods a greeting at her, but doesn’t stop, instead pushing the door to his office open and striding through. “Later, Angel. I need to look over these new developments first.”

His door swings shut on her protest. Charles stops dead. “Mr. Lehnsherr.”

Erik Lehnsherr sits in one of the leather chairs before his desk. He nods, his expression giving nothing away. His tone, however, is faintly mocking as he responds, “Mr. Xavier.”

Charles makes himself move to his desk, dropping the folder on top of the messy stack that has appeared overnight, obviously a result from whatever stunt his client, Sebastian Shaw, was trying to pull this time. He keeps his movements slow and casual whilst trying to gauge Lehnsherr’s mood.

Erik Lehnsherr is the head of the prosecution team who are taking Sebastian Shaw to court, on behalf of the State.

They had had several run-ins, both in court and out, since the date for the case was announced. Charles had seen enough to know that he needed to keep his guard up around Lehnsherr, easily one of the top prosecutors in the country.

For years, rumours had flown about as to Lehnsherr’s use of underhanded methods to get the outcomes he wanted, as well as how ruthless he is in the pursuit of victory.

While Charles doesn’t quite believe in rumors, he is still wary. He knows instinctively that Lehnsherr is dangerous.

Which is why Charles is resolute in not looking at the way Lehnsherr sits, sprawled carelessly in one of his imported leather armchairs, or the way his long fingers drum an impatient beat against the armrests.

“What can I do for you today, Mr. Lehnsherr?” Charles is quite proud that his voice sounds as smooth and politely interested as usual.

There’s a moment when Lehnsherr’s eyes fix on his mouth, eyes filled with his particular brand of intensity, before the mask slides down, and the expressionless facade returns again. “You know exactly why.”

“My client is innocent. He’s just a bit distressed at all the attention this case is getting.” Charles tells him, not really believing the words himself. Sebastian Shaw is a guilty bastard, clear and simple. “We’ll prove that in court tomorrow.”

Another long moment where Lehnsherr studies him, shoulders tense and eyes narrowed. Charles can’t help but swallow instinctively, tongue darting out to wet his suddenly dry lips.

Then suddenly, Lehnsherr stands with feline grace and pushes him against his own desk, one hand tight against his wrist, the other curled around the nape of his neck, allowing him no way out.

Charles isn’t quite thinking straight enough to actually consider escape at this point, with Lehnsherr’s body, all hard planes and unforgiving muscle, pressed against him, chest to thigh. He hopes the words that tumble out of his mouth form a coherent protest, but somehow doubts it.

Lehnsherr smiles, the corners of his lips pulling up just slightly before he leans down further and kisses Charles. The next few moments are lost in a blur of sheer physical sensation, of lips against each other, and the slick, hot press of Lehnsherr’s tongue against his own.

By the time Charles can form a coherent thought, Lehnsherr is at the door, a smirk playing at his lips as he sweeps out. “I’ll see you in court, tomorrow, Charles.”

*

 

  
Their disagreements didn’t always happen whilst they sat opposite each other in the middle of a chess game, warmth from the fireplace coiled and heavy in his study, a snifter of brandy sitting daintily between _his_ long fingers.    


The sound of a chair being pulled back against the wood floor is all the warning Erik gets, before Charles drops himself into the seat next to him in the cafeteria.

Erik deliberately turns his head the other way, and all of a sudden it’s easier to pretend that Charles isn’t there.

“I’m not going away until you tell me, you know.” Charles tells the back of his head, sounding half amused, half...something else he can’t quite identify.

Erik turns back and glares directly at him. Unfortunately, the expression that sends the freshmen and juniors scrambling for cover, which causes most of the seniors’ legs to shiver, does absolutely nothing to Charles.

It sucks to have a best friend who is far too used to every threatening expression in your repertoire.

Erik sighs. He knows from long experience that Charles won’t budge unless he is told what he wants to hear.

“Emma Frost wanted to know if I was going to the Prom. And if I was...if I wanted to go with her.” Erik mumbles into his jacket.

There’s a brief moment of silence as Charles considers this, before he gently prods Erik in his side. “So, what did you say?”

“I said no.”

“What? Just like that?” Charles sounds surprised, as if such rudeness was incomprehensible.

Erik rolls his eyes, figuring that to the ever popular and polite Charles, it probably is.

Erik’s look is baleful now as he squints up at Charles. “What else did you want me to say?”

“You could’ve been a little more polite, you know. Turned her down more gently.”

There’s a pause before Charles adds, a little quieter now, “Or you could’ve agreed.”

“What?” Erik sits up with a frown and stretches, unaware of the way his shirt rides up just a little to show a hint of skin at his waist. He turns to face Charles fully, intending to ask him what exactly he meant by that last comment, but swallows his words at the flush, slowly (but very visibly) spreading over Charles’ milk pale skin.

“Charles, are you ok?” He reaches out a hand to brush over Charles’ forehead. Just to check the temperature of course, he tells himself, trying to ignore the way his fingers linger there, next to warm skin.

They’re just best friends after all.

Charles seems to shake himself out of his flushed state. He smiles, blue eyes bright. “Of course.”

He hesitates, and eyes Erik with an unfamiliar look in his eyes. Erik’s about to ask, but is interrupted by Moira MacTaggert, a fellow senior who shares Chemistry and Literature with them. And who, in Erik’s opinion, spends way too much time with Charles’ attention focused on her.

“Moira.” Charles greets her warmly, and shuffles his chair a little closer to Erik to make room for her.

“Charles, Erik.” She nods at the both of them, but her attention is completely focused on Charles.

She bites her lip and looks up through her lashes at Charles. “So, did you think about what I asked yesterday?”

Charles’ eyes widen, and he shoots a completely horrified expression towards Erik, before waving his hands and babbling. “I don’t know if this is the best time to bring that up, Moira. Maybe after school? Or tomorrow perhaps? I...”

Erik leans over Charles’ shoulder, sliding a friendly arm over it. He sends a parody of a smile towards Moira. “I think this is a wonderful time to discuss it. What did you ask him, Moira?”

She ducks her head, and from where he’s sitting, Erik easily sees the pink creeping through to her cheeks. “I asked if Charles wanted to go to the Prom with me.”

Ah.

So that’s why Charles wanted him to say yes to Emma.

Suddenly, he hates her a lot more than before.

“I see that you have something to discuss. I’ll leave you to it.” Erik stands abruptly, caring little for the way his chair tips over and heads towards the cafeteria doorway.

He resolutely disregards the way that Charles fumbles over excuses, and pretends not to hear the sound of a second chair scraping against the floor.

Erik barely makes it outside before Charles catches up, one hand closing about his arm. “Erik, wait up. It’s not what you think...”

He spins around a little too hard. Charles doesn’t let go fast enough, and trips on an uneven part of the concrete. Thankfully, Erik’s football-honed reflexes are just fast enough to pull Charles towards himself by his waist.

Charles grabs hold of his upper arms, and they stand together in that position, in some sort of a parody of a loose embrace, before Charles colors and lets go, backing up a few steps. “I’m sorry.”

Erik’s anger is long gone and he sighs, sliding one hand through his hair. “No, I should be the one saying sorry. I was completely out of line.”

He directs his gaze to a tree on the distant oval and forces the words out between clenched teeth. “You should go back to Moira and apologize. Maybe she’d still want to go with you to Prom.”

There’s a huff of laughter, and he glances over to see Charles smiling at him fondly. “It’s alright. I wasn’t planning on going with her anyway.”

Erik cranes his head to face him. “What? I thought you wanted me to go with Emma so you could have an excuse to go with Moira.”

“No!” Charles’ protest is loud, and he winces and tones his voice down. “I mean. Raven said that _you_ wanted to go with Emma and only said no because you felt bad that I didn’t have a partner.”

“Charles. What did we say about listening to your interfering little sister again?” Erik asks him, shoving a shoulder against his, a familiar teasing tone in his voice.

Charles mumbles something inaudible and shifts his weight from foot to foot, not quite meeting his gaze.

Erik frowns. Charles only ever avoids eye contact when he’s nervous. “Charles?”

“Didyouwannagotopromwithme?”

Erik blinks and then blinks again as the jumble of words don’t quite compute. “What?”

Charles takes a deep breath, fair skin flushing a deeper red with each word he says. He’s determinedly not looking at Erik. “I said, since neither of us are interested in going with anyone else, did you want to go to the prom? With me, I mean.”

And then he babbles again, red from the tips of his ears all the way down to his neck, and everything finally makes sense to Erik with breathtaking clarity.

He doesn’t do anything to prevent the wide, genuine smile that spreads over his face. “Yes. _Yes_ , of course.”

*

 

  
That first confession didn’t always come on a remote beach littered with scrap metal, with him bleeding out into the sand and _his_ pain (or was it his pain? it was hard to tell now) muting the air, making it hard to breathe as he shakes his head and answers _him_ with a soft, pained ‘No, my friend. We do not.’    


They’re sparring in the courtyard when the page, a young boy of no more than twelve summers, comes running.

Charles parries Erik’s last strike easily and grounds his magic, his glowing sword dissipating into the warm midday air.

Erik sheathes his sword, a plain metal affair, and turns his attention to the bowing boy.

“Your Highness, Sir Erik; the scouts have returned. They have located the traitor, Sebastian Shaw.” The boy tells them both, words tumbling over each other in his hurry to divulge the news.

Charles freezes before he gestures for the boy to rise. “Inform the armoury to gather my gear and the stables to get our mounts prepared.”

The boy hesitates, eyes flickering from Charles to Erik once before turning his gaze downwards. “Your father, the King, has given orders forbidding you from the battlefield.”

Charles stares at him for one moment before he explodes. “What?! I’m fully trained in the arcane arts and a master of sword work. I have proven myself on more than one battlefield already, Father knows that!”

He quiets when Erik places his hands on his shoulders and dismisses the boy.

They stand together in silence until the boy is out of earshot, then Charles turns under Erik’s hands, looking up, eyes fierce. “I don’t care what Father says, I’m coming with you. I’m not letting you face Shaw alone.”

Erik rubs Charles’ shoulders soothingly and smiles. “An entire company of the best knights in the realm is hardly alone, your Highness.”

Charles’ eyes flash with anger and he jerks out of Erik’s hold. “Don’t call me that.”

Erik loses the smile even as his hands reach out for Charles’ slightly smaller ones and clasp them tightly within his own. “Charles. You’re the only heir to this kingdom, his Majesty, the King, is only looking out for your safety.”

There is a stubborn tilt to Charles’ chin that Erik knows all too well. And, well, it’s too bad that Erik’s got an ace up his sleeve too.

He makes sure to hold Charles’ too blue gaze steadily, meaning every word he says. “I can’t devote all my attention to bringing down Shaw, unless I know that you’re somewhere safe.”

Erik knows the exact moment that Charles caves, as he closes his eyes and lets his shoulders slump just a tiny fraction, losing the tension in his smaller frame.

Charles reaches his hands up and grips Erik’s face between his palms tightly, blue eyes staring up. “Then swear.”

Erik tilts his head in a question.

“Swear to me that you’ll return home, no matter what.” Charles’ eyes are serious, searching. He’s not going to take no for an answer.

Erik is the one to break the gaze this time. “Charles, I cannot. I...”

“Swear it.” And the words are an inarguable royal command.

Erik clenches his jaw and crosses his arm across his chest, the sound of metal clanging against metal loud as he bows shallowly. “I swear, by my honor, I will return home, your Highness.”

Now Charles lets him go, eyes soft, pressing a quick kiss against the corner of his mouth. “A knight never breaks his oath.”

Charles takes a step back, then another, blue eyes soft and tries for a smile. “I love you.”

It’s the first time these three words have been said aloud and they almost echo in the tiny courtyard, as if reverberating against the solid stone walls that surround it.

Their breaths are the only audible sound for one long second before Erik steps forward, closing the gap between them once more.

This time, it’s Erik who presses large palms to Charles’ cheeks and tilts his head upwards. The kiss tastes like love and lust and desperation, mixed with the tang of want and need. It’s easily the most perfect kiss they’ve ever had.

Erik draws away first, slowly and touches a final, gentle, barely-there kiss against Charles’ forehead. “Wait for me.”

He strides out of the courtyard towards the armory and stables, sword at his hip, clanking against his armour with every step he takes.

Away from safety.

Away from Charles.

Charles doesn’t open his eyes until Erik’s long gone. And it’s only then he allows the tears to fall.

*

 

  
+1   


But it always ends when he wakes, blinking slowly into the predawn light, stretching an arm over to the other side of the bed. It is cold and smooth, untouched.

There is a heavy ache coiling in his chest as he suddenly remembers that _he_ is gone. And then he hates himself for waking, hates himself for not wanting to be awake and hates himself for not taking that hand and everything _he_ offered.

He sits, willing the lethargy from his limbs, resolutely refusing to think about his dreams (were they even dreams? He thought that such beautiful, painful and realistic dreams could only be impressions, from another life maybe or from an alternate time), to remember them.

Because no matter what happened there, no matter how he meets _him_ , or where they begin to work together, or where _he_ first kisses him, or how they argue, or how desperate his confession to _him_ is, he never sees the end.

He maneuvers himself to the edge of his bed, gritting his teeth against the numb nothingness of his lower body, and sits, just for one moment, staring out into the grounds of his mansion (now so empty and hollow without _him_ ), and wants nothing more than to curl himself back into his blankets, those dreams.

Dreams where he can see and touch and want and be with _him_ every day.

And yet.

He closes his eyes, and lets the dream fade. In the end, he’s a realist, and he doesn’t want to hide behind an illusion of safety, of something he wants but cannot have.

This is the reality where he resides, and it is one that doesn’t contain _him_ any longer.

And maybe, someday in the distant future, he’ll be able to wake up one morning, and not have the ever-present ache of missing _him_ haunt his every memory.

And maybe, someday in the distant future, he’ll be able to sleep steadily during the night, and stop dreaming about _what if_.


End file.
